He stopped short. A barrel organ outside was playing a music hall ditty. His head kept time to the music.
"I wish I had my banjo!" he exclaimed, impulsively. Then he shivered. "Did you hear that? A banjo! I used to play it, you know."
"The banjo!" he repeated. "Do you really mean that you want to play it at the present moment?"
"I do," Burton replied. "If I had it with me now, I should play that tune. I should play others like it. Everything seems to be slipping away from me. I can smell the supper cooking in my little kitchen at Clematis Villa. Delicious! My God, I can't bear it any longer! Here goes!"
He took a bean from his pocket with trembling fingers and swallowed it. Then he leaned back in his chair for several moments with closed eyes. When he opened them again, an expression of intense relief was upon his face.
"I am coming back already," he declared faintly. "Thank Heavens! Mr. Waddington, your room is charming, sir. Japanese prints, too! I had no idea that you were interested in them. That third one is exquisite. And what a dado!"
"Hewlings himself designed it for me," Mr. Waddington observed, with satisfaction. "There are several things I should like you to notice, Burton. That lacquer-work box!"
Burton was already holding it in his fingers and was gazing at it lovingly.
"It is perfect," he admitted. "What workmanship! You are indeed fortunate, Mr. Waddington. And isn't that Mona Lisa on the walls? What a beautiful reproduction! I am saving up money even now to go to Paris to see the original. Only a few nights ago I was reading Pater's appreciation of it."
He rose and wandered around the room, making murmured comments all the time. Presently he came back to the table and glanced down at the sheets of manuscript.
"Mr. Waddington," he said, "let me take these to my friend. I feel that the last few hours must have been a sort of nightmare, and yet--"
He drew out a little box from his waistcoat pocket and peered inside. He was suddenly grave.
"It was no nightmare, then," he muttered. "I have really taken a bean."
"You took it not a quarter of an hour ago," Mr. Waddington told him.
"It is awful to imagine that I should have needed it," he confessed. "There must be some way out of this. You will trust me with these sheets, Mr. Waddington? If my friend in the country can do nothing for us, I will take them to the British Museum."